A New Life
by occhi bella
Summary: Story being written for the fic variations August challenge on IJ and LJ and based on the prompt: sane, insane. Takes place before the movie.
1. Bad Timing

**Title:** Bad Timing**  
Author:** occhi bella  
**Fandom:** Sleepy Hollow (movie)  
**Character/Pairing:** Ichabod Crane  
**Rating:** T  
**Prompt/Claim:** sane/insane  
**Word Count:** 1699  
**Disclaimer:** Sleepy Hollow and its characters do not belong to me.  
**Note:** The 'Doctor's Riot' in New York was an actual event that occurred in 1788. I've embellished some of the details of the riot and added my own however for purposes of this little story.

* * *

The first time Ichabod Crane saw a dissected human corpse 'in person' was when he was sixteen years old. 

With no intention whatsoever of returning he'd left behind his small home town in Connecticut. Weary of the superstitious, fearful citizens of that place and of his father the Reverend's stern sermons and severe beatings and punishments, Ichabod longed to live in the city, where men were embracing new ideas and better, more humane ways of implementing them.

It took several weeks before he made it to the city, traveling day after day on foot until he collapsed from weariness, and eventually stowing away on a vessel that was traveling down the Hudson River, carrying crops from farms in the Hudson Valley to the city to be sold. He arrived in mid-April, in the evening.

Ichabod left home with almost no possessions save the clothes on his back and a few precious belongings that he took with him when he left home. A thaumatrope with an image of a flying cardinal on one side and an empty cage on the other, which his mother had given to him. A ring that she had given him, which he wore on his right index finger and never removed. And he had a bag with a change of clothes and, of course, his favorite books, which he couldn't bear to leave behind.

Reading had been the one thing in life that he enjoyed. Possessed with an unquenchable thirst for knowledge he read anything he could get his hands on. Science, medicine and anatomy, law, philosophy and metaphysics were only some of the myriad subjects he read up on. He read William Shakespeare, Chaucer, Beowulf, Milton and many other great writers and poets. And among his favorites were Plato's _The Republic_, Aristotle's Dialogues _On Justice_, and Beccaria's _On Crimes and Punishments_.

Famished and exhausted, he began to wander the streets in search of one of the work houses he'd read about, where he could at least earn a meal and a bed for the night. With a full belly and a decent night's sleep his head would be clear and in the morning he could begin to formulate a plan to begin to earn a living in this great city.

Unfortunately for him, Young Ichabod arrived in New York on the very day that its citizens lost their minds. A riot erupted in full force and Ichabod unwittingly found himself in the midst of this insanity.

After turning the wrong corner he found himself in the path of a frenzied mob. For a split second he stood rooted, stunned. Many of the men carried torches and brickbats. Coming to his senses quickly, he gripped his bag tightly and turned to run in the opposite direction, away from the swarm of hundreds of people rushing toward him. But several men, powered by their outrage, overtook him. Before he knew it he was surrounded by a sea of bodies that pressed him in on all sides until he couldn't free himself. He was carried away toward wherever the frantic mob was going.

Their destination was a large square building in the middle of the next block. There the mob began to split up. The terrified Ichabod, fearful for his person and his life, was trapped in the swarm, still unable to flee. His heart pounded in his ears and he felt weak and short of breath. His eyes darted around frantically as he searched for a method of escape, or at least a clue as to what was going on. He was so lost in confusion that he barely registered when groups of men moved to block each of the entrances to the building and screamed for the occupants, whom they were calling _heathens_ and _grave robbers_, to come out. They wanted blood.

When no one emerged, the mob broke down the doors and stormed into the building. The sounds of glass being smashed and furniture being overturned could be heard from inside the building. Ichabod, who stood away from any of the entrances, took the opportunity to attempt to extract himself from the crowd. But many of the rioters had remained outside, no doubt patrolling the doorways in the event that the hated occupants would exit so they could accost them, which made it difficult for the young man to escape.

Having apparently destroyed everything in the building, the mob re-emerged, many of the men carrying what Ichabod discovered to be doctors' operating tables. Upon one of them was a dissected human body. His dazed mind vaguely registered that this was a medical school and that the students were working with human corpses to learn anatomy and practice their surgical skills.

"We have the proof!" a voice boomed over the loud ruckus.

A tinge of dizziness circled Ichabod's head and the world went far away around him. The harsh shouting of overlapping voices surrounded him, the words incomprehensible to him. His eyes seemed to wander without purpose, seeing the flicker of torch lights, unfamiliar faces contorted in anger and fear, men swinging sticks, silver buttons set in a black coat. Hands grabbed him by the shoulders and his eyes rolled up to focus on the man that they belonged to. He wore a black uniform with silver buttons.

"Go home, lad." The man's voice penetrated the thunderous noise around him. "You have no place being mixed up in this madness."

Ichabod's knees turned to rubber and he crumpled, fainting into the man's arms.

**oooOooo**

He was slumped in a chair when he awoke, in what appeared to be an office of some sort. Panicked, he sat up quickly and glanced around, taking in his surroundings. The room was fairly small, with a wooden desk covered with papers and a wooden chair behind it. Sconces hung on the walls, lighting the room well.

Somewhere outside of this room he could hear the jangling of heavy keys and the clanging of metal. Shouts still emanated from the streets and Ichabod recalled the riot that he'd unfortunately encountered. He closed his eyes and sank back in the chair, remembering the man in the uniform, the sight of the body, the frenzy of the mob.

Approaching footsteps caused him to stir and he opened his eyes in time to see the man in the black uniform enter the room. Dark brown tousled hair was peppered with grey. He was quite tall and fairly slim. His thin, weathered face was kind in appearance, despite the lines of worry and the shadows in the grey eyes that had seen too much. He carried a loaf of bread and a sack of apples.

"You look like you haven't eaten in days."

"I…haven't," Ichabod answered hesitantly, his attention focused on his rumbling stomach once more.

The man cleared some space on the edge of the desk and set the food down, then he gestured for Ichabod to move his chair forward and help himself.

"Thank you," he murmured before digging in.

"How old are you?"

"Sixteen."

"I'm Constable Jackson," the man introduced himself as he watched Ichabod eat hungrily. "Where are you from, lad?"

"Connecticut," he answered between bites. "I just arrived here…"

"Left home to seek your fortune, I gather. What were you doing in the middle of that fiasco?"

"I didn't intend to be…I-I was looking for a place where I could work for food and a bed. I turned a corner and got swept up in that crowd…"

"Hmm. I see."

"My bag…" Ichabod exclaimed suddenly, glancing around him in panic as it dawned on him that it must have been lost in the shuffle.

"I brought your bag, too." He pointed to the floor behind the chair where he sat, then regarded Ichabod with amusement. "It weighs more than you do. What have you got in there?"

"Books."

"Books?" Constable Jackson repeated incredulously. He began to chuckle lightly. "You would have been better off packing food."

Ichabod regarded him with dark intense eyes, at a loss for words.

"What happened…out there? Was that a medical school?"

"Yes. They use bodies for their anatomy studies. Unfortunately on this night, a man discovered that his wife's grave had been desecrated and her body removed from its coffin. Whoever did it never bothered to rebury the empty coffin. So, this man and his friends assumed that interns from the hospital dug it up because they needed a corpse to work with. They managed to rile up an army. We'll need an army to stop them."

"The doctors…were they hurt?"

"Most of them escaped through the rear windows, but one of the physicians and three students remained behind to protect the specimens, unsuccessfully. I, and several of my fellow constables, managed to push back some of the mob and get the four men safely away. They're staying in the jail cells until this passes."

"Oh." The thought of the doctors staying in jail took him aback somewhat. "You brought me here…"

"It occurred to me that you would be spooked if you woke up and found yourself in a jail cell."

Ichabod swallowed nervously at the thought. "Yes."

"The riot has moved from this area, up to Columbia College. The mayor is rallying the military to stop it."

They sat in thoughtful silence for a short time. Ichabod reflected on what Constable Jackson had told him. It was perfectly understandable for medical students to use actual corpses to study anatomy and practice surgery. He was surprised to find that even here in New York people were suspicious of that sort of thing. In Europe they had already put this widely into practice.

"So, you can read," the constable remarked, interrupting his thoughts.

"Yes, of course…"

"There's a book and print shop nearby that's hiring. I'm sure they would be happy to get a young man like you who's eager to work. Especially one who can read. I'll write the address down for you if you're interested."

He offered a silent prayer of thanks to the power that had put him in the path of this kind constable. His luck was taking a turn for the better.

"I certainly am interested. Thank you, sir."


	2. After the Storm

**Title:** After the Storm**  
Author:** occhi bella  
**Fandom:** Sleepy Hollow (movie)  
**Character/Pairing:** Ichabod Crane  
**Rating:** T  
**Prompt/Claim:** sane/insane  
**Word Count:** 1209  
**Warning/Spoilers:** None.  
**Disclaimer:** Sleepy Hollow and its characters do not belong to me.

* * *

Ichabod slept fitfully along one side of the wall in the same room in the jail house, on a bedroll on the floor. Constable Jackson had allowed him to stay, taking into consideration the late hour and the events of the evening, and suggesting that he not venture back out. Tucked in his pocket now was a slip of paper upon which the constable had written down the name and address of the book and print shop. He planned to go there first thing the next day. 

When he woke in the morning another constable with brown hair sat at the desk.

"Oh," the young man mumbled abashedly after starting when he sat up and saw him.

This man was heavy-set and rather jowly and cross-looking. He frowned down at Ichabod from where he sat behind the desk, then turned his gaze away with a sniff.

"Jackson told me you spent the night in here when I relieved him this morning." His words were clipped, his tone condescending as he addressed him curtly.

"Pardon my intrusion," Ichabod answered softly. "I'll be…"

His words were cut off by the noise of hundreds of shouting voices slowly beginning to crescendo and then the sound of shattering glass.

"Bring out your doctors! Bring out your doctors!"

"What the…?" The constable rose from his chair and took up his night stick. "Stay here," he ordered and strode out of the room purposefully.

Despite the success the authorities had in subduing the rabble the previous evening, once more people were riled up this morning. Too terrified to leave, Ichabod was grateful that the surly constable had ordered him to stay where he was. He hurried to his feet and moved to the window. Though he'd observed the room the night before, he hadn't yet glimpsed the area surrounding the building where he temporarily remained safe.

He noted that he was on the second floor of a three-story building. It stood inside a small park that was surrounded by a fence, which had been torn down. Several two- and three-storey buildings stood a few yards away. Below, at ground-level, the enraged mob was gathered outside of the jail house, screaming ferociously and hurling sticks and stones at the building. Several constables stood between them and the entrance, ducking the flying objects and attempting to reason with the crowd, but ultimately resorting to the use of their batons. The windows on the lower level had been smashed and several men were reaching in, attempting to drag their prey out. The panic-stricken occupants hammered at the groping hands that meant to pull them out to their deaths.

Stones and bricks slashed the air and Ichabod leaped aside just in time to avoid a brick that sailed right in through the window where he'd been standing, very nearly missing his head. He stepped around the jagged fragments of glass that lay strewn about the floor now and crouched down in a corner as far as possible from the window. His hand went to his chest to still his fluttering heart and he slowly began to catch his breath.

He didn't know how much time had passed when he heard the barking of gunshots. Gasping, he stood up and rushed back to the window, staring in dismay at the scene down below. Troops had surrounded the mob, armed with muskets, and several bodies had fallen to the earth. The rioters finally began to scatter in fear as the soldiers prepared to fire a second round of shots at them.

**oooOooo**

Quiet had descended upon the jail house. Now that the dust had cleared, constables in uniform and men in plain clothes picked their way among the wounded rioters that had been left behind, sprawled on the grass. The men in plain dress knelt among the injured and began to tend to them. As he watched from the second story window, Ichabod gathered that they were the doctors that had finally been able to emerge from the cells.

He studied the angle of the sun then glanced around the office for a time piece. The afternoon was waning, but perhaps it wasn't too late to walk over to the book shop and ask about the job. He took up his bag and headed off, but when he reached the bottom of the stairs, the sour-looking constable who had been sitting at the desk when he woke that morning stopped him.

"Hold on, boy. They're working out there."

"Pardon, Mr. Constable, sir, I was hoping to inquire about a job today…"

"No one's giving out jobs today," he interrupted sharply. "The city is in an uproar."

"But I…"

The look of annoyance in the constable's eyes cut his words off like a knife. Ichabod suppressed a sigh and turned away. He moved to the window and watched as the medics worked and carts were brought to transport the injured away. Blankets covered the faces of the five men that had been killed in the gunfire.

The front door opened and Constable Jackson entered the jail house.

"Constable Thompson," he greeted the other constable.

He noticed Ichabod then and nodded to him, greeting him pleasantly.

"Greetings, Young Crane."

"Good afternoon, sir."

"You're early, Jackson," Constable Thompson drawled. Ichabod had come to the conclusion that he was a most unpleasant man.

"Yes. I reported to the Watch House to see if I could be of assistance. Things seem to be quieting down here finally."

"Thankfully. It was a madhouse earlier."

"The Burgomaster and High Constable Wilkins have suggested that the physicians and the medical students be sent to the country for a short time, until this is all truly past. A small military escort will take them."

"And what of him?" Constable Thompson jerked a thumb disdainfully at Ichabod.

"This young man is interested in earning an honest living. I have already given him a referral to a possible job. Have you been stuck in here all day, Young Crane?"

"Yes, sir."

"Well, tomorrow morning will not be too late to inquire about work there. I take it you have not made arrangements for a place to sleep either."

"I have not."

"Very well. You may remain here again."

"Thank you."

"And now, it would be best if you would return to the office upstairs and wait there. I will join you momentarily."

Ichabod nodded and turned away, beginning to ascend the stairs once more.

"You are mad, Jackson," he overheard Constable Thompson remark as he reached the top of the landing.

"For helping a young man in need of work?"

"No. For thinking that you can save every runaway boy that crosses your path."

"I merely guide them in the right direction, to give them a fighting chance. They come here with nothing. But if given the opportunity to find work and learn a profession, maybe we won't have so many of them living in Canvas Town, or worse, in our jail cells. Besides, that young man is already sixteen, and very intelligent. He's literate and obviously well-educated. I have no doubt that he will be a useful and contributing member of society."

"As long as I'm not the one looking after him," Constable Thompson muttered. "But I still say you're mad."


	3. Circumstances

**Title:** Circumstances**  
Author:** occhi bella  
**Fandom:** Sleepy Hollow (movie)  
**Character/Pairing:** Ichabod Crane  
**Rating:** T  
**Prompt/Claim:** sane/insane  
**Word Count:** 1412  
**Warning/Spoilers:** None.  
**Disclaimer:** Sleepy Hollow and its characters do not belong to me.

* * *

Darkness had fallen over the city, and an uneasy quiet with it. Constable Jackson had set aside his paperwork and joined Ichabod for dinner, which consisted of bread, cheese and fruit from a nearby shop. Loathe to the idea of free-loading, Ichabod offered to assist with chores that evening in return for the food that the constable had paid for. Constable Jackson merely laughed and waved him off. Constable Thompson, who had overheard the exchange, immediately suggested that he could sweep all of the rooms.

"In a little while, Constable Drake will be back and I will take his place making the rounds on our block. You're welcome to sleep in here on the floor again, although you may be more comfortable on a cot in one of the cells."

Ichabod shuddered at the thought. Noticing his expression, Constable Jackson chuckled lightly.

"The cells here are not like the ones at the Broad Street Watch House. They're fairly clean, in fact."

"Why is that?"

"This is more of a debtors' prison. Most of the inmates in these cells cannot pay their creditors, and so they've been incarcerated here, but not under lock and key. They're allowed to come and go as they please, to find work."

"Oh."

"New York has become an overcrowded place, and the administrators still have not figured out how to account for that. New buildings are being erected, but only the rich can afford them. There is much quarreling among the citizens and even the leaders of the town disagree with each other on matters of government. Many are down on their luck and crime has become rampant. It's a sad state of affairs."

"What is Canvas Town?" Ichabod inquired after some hesitation.

An expression of surprise crossed Constable Jackson's features.

"I overheard you speaking of it as I was coming upstairs."

"During the revolution, fires raged here in New York. Most of the houses were destroyed and there was a great shortage. A cluster of tents and shanties rose up on Broad Street as many citizens were forced to resort to squat in makeshift accommodations. There were not enough homes to go round, and the rentals rose so high that many couldn't afford the lodgings that were available. The price of food, firewood, everything soared and Canvas Town became an area infested with crime and vice. Crime was the only means to their survival. It was for this reason that the first Watch House was built on Broad Street. Now that very same street is becoming one of the most fashionable in the city. The squatters were pushed out of the area by the building developers."

"Where are they now?"

"They were forced to relocate to the outer-most boundaries of the city. East along the river and north, off of upper Broadway. Near here. Unfortunates such as them are an eyesore to the more fortunate men. They don't want to see it and so the less fortunate are segregated." Constable Jackson sighed heavily. "There are many ills in this world, Young Crane."

Ichabod fell silent, musing on the conversation that he'd overheard between the two constables earlier. Constable Jackson appeared to be remarkable and a sense of awe pervaded him as he reflected on his luck in crossing paths with this man.

"_I merely guide them in the right direction, to give them a fighting chance. They come here with nothing. But if given the opportunity to find work and learn a profession, maybe we won't have so many of them living in Canvas Town, or worse, in our jail cells."_

Every word that he'd said to Constable Thompson was burned into Ichabod's memory. This was someone who cared about people as well as his occupation. He couldn't help but be impressed by this for he knew all too well that the world was a frightening and cruel place, full of people that were motivated by fear and greed.

His father, Reverend Crane, was a devoutly religious minister and Ichabod grew up in a small town on the outskirts of Hartford with a strict Calvinist upbringing. He was required to attend his father's services on Sunday, but one day he found that a void had formed within him and he no longer knew what to believe. The words of fear and sin, faith and salvation that his father expounded on before the congregants in the severe white chapel rang with emptiness in his ears, devoid of meaning.

That was a long time ago, when he was very young, seven, perhaps. His mother died when he was seven; one day she was there, the next day she was gone and he never saw her again. Vague recollections of images of the funeral haunted him at times, bringing on severe, unbearable headaches which required him to retire to bed, often for an entire day. Sleep assuaged the pain and erased the shadows of memory that lurked just behind his consciousness.

Several scars on his back bore witness to the brutal beatings and lashes that he received at Reverend Crane's hand, meant for his own good and salvation. Frightened and apprehensive that he would unknowingly commit some offense that would inspire a beating, young Ichabod withdrew, keeping to himself most of the time and shunning the company of others. He spent his waking hours alone, reading, exploring and learning about his surroundings, nursing an injured baby cardinal back to health and keeping him as his own.

Although they were not wealthy, the reverend saw to it that his son was educated, the one thing for which Ichabod was grateful to him. Sensitive and quiet, smaller than other boys and slight of build, he became a target among his schoolmates. But he learned to read and write and, confident in his abilities and intellect, which he knew to be far beyond those of his peers, he rose above their bullying.

Possessing a brilliant, agile mind and a thirst for knowledge he devoured books on every subject under the sun. Absorbed in his reading, the cruelty of his father and of the world around him faded away, if only temporarily. Books of science and medicine intrigued him and with wonder he discovered new, more sensible explanations for the phenomena around him. He lost himself in the epics of Homer and Virgil, memorized and took to heart the ancient teachings of Plato and Aristotle, and eagerly embraced the philosophies of modern, enlightened men such as Beccaria and Montesquieu, in whose writings reason and logic prevailed.

He'd already read through Beccaria's _On Crimes and Punishments_ several times when he was old enough to realize that the reverend and the other elders of the town used devices of torture to punish men, and less frequently women, who stood accused of a crime. Beccaria had denounced this method of punishment. He advocated the idea that all men must be assumed innocent until they are proven guilty and that torture was not a means with which to discover a man's guilt; only reasonable and undeniable evidence could prove it and the punishment ought to fit the crime. Ichabod had internalized this philosophy and made it his own.

Horrified by the revelation of this barbaric treatment of people whose crimes hadn't yet been proven, hesitant to speak out for fear of his father's wrath, and physically sickened by the sight of the frightening-looking contraptions that they used, Ichabod wished to put himself as far away from his father and the other leaders as possible. He, too, had read the Bible, had listened to passages read in church by his father, and he had learned that Christ taught the way of peace, compassion, mercy. How could supposedly sane men who claimed to worship Him and follow His teachings justify torturing their fellow human beings?

"Are you alright?"

Ichabod started as Constable Jackson's voice brought him back to the present. The elder man was studying his face closely and the young man attempted to regain his composure quickly.

"Yes. Thank you." His throat was constricted, his voice choked. "I…you've been very kind to me. I appreciate it."

But it was not only his kindness for which Ichabod was grateful to this man. He appreciated his candor, his easy-going manner and his sensibility. And Constable Jackson respected his privacy. He had not asked one question about the circumstances from which he'd come, nor had he pried into why he'd left home.

Perhaps he could have some faith in humanity after all.


	4. Luck

**Title:** Luck**  
Author:** occhi bella  
**Fandom:** Sleepy Hollow (movie)  
**Character/Pairing:** Ichabod Crane  
**Rating:** T  
**Prompt/Claim:** sane/insane, fourth part of a multi-part story  
**Word Count:** 1601  
**Warning/Spoilers:** None.  
**Disclaimer:** Sleepy Hollow and its characters do not belong to me.

* * *

The book and print shop was a dream job for Ichabod, for it brought him close to the things he loved most: books. When he wasn't working he was reading the books and pamphlets that he now had unlimited access to. Mr. Crawford, the owner and publisher that he worked for, referred him to the home of a rich widow upon discovering that he didn't have much money or anywhere to sleep except possibly that horrific area known as Canvas Town.

Mrs. Thacher was a kind, elderly lady whose husband had been Mr. Crawford's business partner. He had died several years ago and she had inherited from him a lovely four-storey house on Maiden Lane, a narrow cobblestone lane off of William Street. The façade was white and there was a charming large round window on the top floor. She lived alone, save for her servants, and was willing to rent the attic room to him for much less than she might have charged given the rental rates in the city.

It was yet another unbelievable stroke of good luck in a series of fortunate coincidences.

Teeming with thousands of residents, Ichabod enjoyed the lively rhythm and bustle of New York, and he appreciated the anonymity that the city granted him. No one pried into anyone else's lives here, talk of witchcraft and other superstitious drivel didn't exist. Here, educated and erudite men gathered, debating over the future of the new republic that was about to be borne and arguing the pros and cons of its pending constitution. Elegant four to six-storey homes lined the cobblestone streets and the clop-clopping of horses' hooves as they pulled carriages carrying well-dressed citizens infused the city with a sophistication that he relished.

On his first Saturday in the city the wide-eyed Ichabod ventured out to explore his new home, strolling through Bowling Green and admiring the newly planted poplar trees, walking along the mile-long stretch of Broadway that boasted New York's most luxurious houses and fancy shops. Women and men strolled arm in arm, dressed in all their finery. Visitors thronged through the streets speaking in heavily accented English or in European tongues such as French and German. Clothing was different here, as New Yorkers adopted the new fashions and clothing of Europe.

Lost in thought, Ichabod wandered aimlessly through the narrow byways on that first Saturday, absentmindedly venturing east toward the river, where he found himself in a filthy and seedy area that lay between the jail house and the river that flowed along the east side of Manhattan Island.

The foul smell that reached his nostrils stirred him from his reverie and he stopped in his tracks, now completely focused on his surroundings. He had no real recollection of how he'd arrived here, so deep in contemplation had he been. Crumbling buildings, run-down shanties and makeshift tents surrounded him, refuse and garbage were strewn about. Heavily made-up women in low-cut dresses lounged in doorways in provocative poses, luring men inside. A small group of drunken men argued boisterously. But what caught his attention was the sight of people slumped against the sides of buildings. Filthy and disheveled, they had no doubt passed out from too much drink, though he couldn't be sure. A few of them looked like they might have been dead.

Ichabod knew that he ought to turn and run, putting as much distance between himself and this neighborhood as possible, but he found that his legs wouldn't move. Instead he merely gaped open-mouthed at the scene in horrified fascination. Two of the men in the quarreling group came to blows. People dressed in shabby, threadbare clothes ventured out of doors or crawled out of makeshift shanties to watch the fight and prod the two men.

A constable appeared from around a corner, apparently on patrol, and the prostitutes immediately disappeared from the doorways, retreating inside. Catching sight of the ruckus the constable rang his bell loudly. In moments, three other constables appeared. They ran toward the brawl, batons at the ready and rushed into the cluster of men. The spectators began to scatter in fear, attempting to dodge the heavy sticks that were aimed at their limbs and torsos and escape into one of the decrepit buildings. Ichabod watched in horror as several men were beaten to the ground by the four constables, then pulled to their feet and handcuffed. Blood streamed from the mouth of one man who had received a series of blows to the stomach from the baton of one of the constables, whom he now recognized to be Constable Thompson, the sour man in the jail house.

His hand went to his chest as his heart began to thud rapidly and he became short of breath. Stumbling backward, he receded into the shadow of one of the decrepit buildings so as not to be noticed, waiting until the four constables had passed by with their prisoners and turned off of this street, which he now noted to be Cherry Street. The river marked the east of the city and he took off at a run, heading west, without stopping until he reached Broadway. Once there he leaned against one of the buildings, trying to catch his breath. His trembling, weakened knees couldn't withstand his weight and he sank down along the wall, remaining crouched there until his heartbeat slowed and his breath came easier.

And so Ichabod learned very quickly of the evils that plagued New York. The city was filled with crime and destitution, pushed out of the sight of upper class society, to the east and north margins of the town. Canvas Town and the streets along the river were extremes of poverty, and the places where men went to indulge their vices. A person could die along Cherry Street without attracting the attention or concern of a single soul. And the constables that patrolled the area took advantage of their position, finding excuses to brutalize those people and worsening the situation.

As he spent more time in the city he discovered that even in the gentrified, fashionable area there was theft. It was here where the 'haves' resided that pockets were picked so deftly that one didn't realize he'd been robbed until long after the theft had occurred. Barefoot children dressed in tattered rags, their faces streaked with dirt and grime, loitered on corners and in front of shops begging for a few pence to buy food until they were picked up by the local constable working that beat, who would shuffle them off to jail and out of sight. Weary, underpaid working men in plain, nondescript clothing toiled along the river, attempting to repair the sagged and rotted wharves so that shipping could be revitalized and New York's commerce would thrive once more. At the end of the day, many of them returned to debtors' jail, where they could get a bed for the night and possibly a meal.

There was violence and theft, murder and chicanery; ills that made Ichabod scoff bitterly at the ridiculous nature of the accusations that his father and the other elders in his hometown had made against so many men and women who were more than likely innocent of anything save being somewhat different than the average person.

He remembered them condemning one woman who stood accused of making a pact with Satan and luring others to do his bidding, simply because she was reclusive most of the time and because someone had seen her walking into the woods alone one night. The widow, Mary Baker. Although Ichabod never heard the town leaders questioning her, rumors were rampant through the tiny town at that time. She was a witch, she was in league with Satan. Others argued that she was no witch, but was merely carrying on a clandestine affair with an unknown man. Each and every one of these explanations was enough proof for these ignorant folks to condemn her. Even without proof that she practiced witchcraft, the 'fact' that she was fornicating secretly with someone was enough to point to her guilt and evil ways.

The extreme disparity between the classes stood out blatantly here in New York, stirring sadness and anger inside of him. The poor had very little hope of climbing out of the quagmire of their existence, unless they resorted to dishonesty. Suffering the cruelty and injustices of an indifferent society, they eked out meager lives, often forced to turn to crime in order to merely survive, beginning a vicious cycle. It was only through his chance encounter with Constable Jackson that he had narrowly avoided that existence.

At times Ichabod would reflect on those first hours in New York with wonder at the great luck he'd had. He believed in reason and logic, had left behind superstition and belief in the occult when he left home; yet as he replayed in his mind the events that had occurred since his arrival, he imagined his mother walking beside him, an intangible and loving spirit who looked just as he remembered her in life. She was watching over him and guiding him on the right path like a guardian angel. It was a foolish, childish sort of daydream, he knew, but it comforted him to think that somehow it was she that had nudged him to turn that particular corner, where the mob would overtake him and where eventually Constable Jackson would find him.

And a chain of events followed, bringing him work and a better life than he might have found in the city if he hadn't met the constable.


	5. Longing and Memory

**Title:** Longing and Memory**  
Author:** occhi bella  
**Fandom:** Sleepy Hollow (movie)  
**Character/Pairing:** Ichabod Crane  
**Rating:** T  
**Prompt/Claim:** sane/insane, fifth part of a multi-part story  
**Word Count:** 1490  
**Warning/Spoilers:** None.  
**Disclaimer:** Sleepy Hollow and its characters do not belong to me.

* * *

In July New York ceased to be a colony and became the State of New York, having ratified the new constitution. By the time summer ended, Ichabod was settled in his new life in the city. The work he did was menial and mundane, but he was surrounded by books and Mr. Crawford was a decent enough boss. He even earned enough to set aside some pocket money. 

Shy for all of his life and much more inclined to remain buried in his books and studies than in socializing, Ichabod hadn't acquired very much skill in making friends with peers. In a city filled with an overwhelming number of residents, it was easy for him to remain obscure. It also made him very lonely.

But Mrs. Thacher behaved in a somewhat motherly way toward him. She'd made every effort to make his room as comfortable as possible when he first moved in. It was a large room with a high vaulted ceiling, a bed, an armoire and a desk. One wall was fitted with several rows of shelves. The servants provided him with linens, towels and fresh water daily. A lot of light entered the room through the large round window overlooking Maiden Lane. Although he understood the payments he made to be for living quarters only when he moved in, the old widow made sure that he was at least fed breakfast and dinner daily. He usually skipped lunch, often using his money to buy a book instead. On many occasions Mrs. Thacher invited him to eat with her. He would listen attentively as she told him stories about her life in Europe as a little girl, her journey to America with her husband and about their life here before, during and after the Revolution.

After his encounter with the dissected corpse during the riot and thinking back on the hysterics of the crowd over it, his interest in the subjects of medicine, chemistry and anatomy became fired up again. The strides that could be made in medicine and surgery from the study of the human body, including corpses, were infinite. Soon they would be able to cure all manner of ills and diseases of the body, improving the quality of life and perhaps prolonging it significantly.

In addition, he had begun to read accounts of unexplained, sudden deaths in Europe where physicians were employed to work with the constabulary, examining the bodies of the deceased in an effort to determine whether they were in reality victims of a murder. Internal organs were studied for signs of damage by poisons. Powders and other substances of alchemy were mixed with samples of blood taken from the victim, the reactions studied to determine the presence of foreign substances. Ichabod was fascinated, especially after reading so many treatises on justice, crime and punishment. If one could determine the nature of a crime and the identity of the perpetrator with accuracy, even after a victim was deceased and unable to speak up, truly guilty men wouldn't be allowed to go free and innocent men would no longer be mistakenly condemned. It would be an amazing breakthrough in the system of justice and criminology, and there would no longer be any excuse to employ torture.

When he managed to save up enough money, he began to turn his room into a small laboratory. He started to experiment with chemicals, following guidelines in the many books that he read, learning through practice the methods that were discussed. Poring over anatomy books and taking notes, he committed to memory the names of every organ in the human body, every muscle group and learned how each of the systems of the body worked.

Until now his only ambition had been to leave home. For the first time, he began to consider a choice of profession.

**oooOooo**

"I shall have to speak with Mr. Crawford," Mrs. Thacher announced one Sunday as they ate dinner. "You are far too intelligent and capable. Your talent is being wasted on such menial tasks."

She had asked him about his job a few minutes before and he'd answered her very generally, not wishing to discuss the trite and mundane details of his job. After much prodding from her, he finally gave her a few more specifics about it.

"That's not necessary. But I thank you very much," Ichabod answered quickly. He knew she meant well, but he didn't wish to stir up trouble. Mr. Crawford might resent her meddling and take it out on him. That very thing had occurred when someone in town made a suggestion to his father one day.

"Are you planning to go to college then?"

Ichabod's brow furrowed in thought. Given the profession that he was now pondering, college would be a necessity.

"I should like to, very much. But college is expensive. I will have to see how much money I can put aside in the next few years."

"What about your parents…?" she began.

He shook his head. "We were never wealthy and I have not seen my father. If I attend college, it will have to be with whatever I earn myself."

Fortunately she didn't press further about his father. But her next question made him gulp involuntarily. "And your mother?"

"She died when I was seven," he answered tightly.

"Oh, I'm very sorry, Young Mr. Crane. You have not had it easy."

Her voice was kind and tender, and his throat began to constrict. He swallowed hard, forcing back the lump that was beginning to form.

Perhaps she noticed that he was becoming upset, for she changed the subject smoothly without prying any further.

**oooOooo**

Elizabeth Crane often visited Ichabod in bittersweet dreams, leaving him with the impression of images and times they had spent together. He couldn't remember them upon waking, but they left him feeling warm inside yet filled with longing and a melancholy ache in his heart. She'd been taken from him far too soon and he couldn't remember how or why.

His mother had been a very beautiful woman. Memories of her warm, serene brown eyes stayed with him, and he recalled her long, straight brown hair, which she always wore loose. Other women of the town swept their locks back into a tight bun, often covering their hair under bonnets. Although he couldn't truly remember many specifics of those times spent with Lady Crane he remembered that they had fun, that he felt safe and loved. He recalled the way she looked at him and how her touch felt, tender, comforting and full of love.

How was it possible for a son to have no recollection of how he'd lost his own mother? He was at a loss to explain that; after all, he was already seven years old when it happened and he felt certain that he ought to have some memory of it.

Even the funeral was a blur and his mind seemed to have retained only mere fragments. The sight of his father and the other elders dressed in black, looking somber and severe. Grey skies and a light drizzle. Sometimes he would close his eyes and try to conjure up other images from those days, but darkness seemed to blanket that time of his life. He had a memory of waking up in his bed to find those men standing over him, whispering. When he tried to speak, to ask them what was happening, his mouth felt like cotton and he couldn't utter a sound.

_He fainted. It's not surprising. He's just lost his mother so suddenly. _

_But he's been unconscious for so long. _

_He's asleep now. _

_Will he be alright? Such a strange delirium is upon him. And yet he has no fever. Is this more witchcraft? _

They didn't notice that he'd opened his eyes and continued to whisper agitatedly about him. He couldn't remember anything else. Perhaps he'd fallen back to sleep.

Living alone with only his father in the years after that, the house became so cold, with a gloomy and almost lifeless air. Reverend Crane barely spoke to him and their home was almost always as silent as a tomb, except for the times when blows rained down on his back because he'd inadvertently said or done something that infuriated his father, often with no warning at all. He never knew what he might say that would set him off.

But thoughts of those days with Reverend Crane only made him angry now. His purpose in coming to New York was to create a new life for himself, away from the abuse and restraints of his father, and from the narrow-mindedness of the entire town. Determined, he pushed aside those bad memories with an effort, resolved to never think of them further, and continued to occupy himself with his job and his self-education.

His life would have a purpose and somehow he would make a difference in the world.


End file.
